My language! heavens!I am the best of them that speak this speech. Were I but where 'tis spoken.

Go wisely and slowly. Those who rush stumble and fall.

If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.

Lawn as white as driven snow; Cyprus black as e'er was crow; Gloves as sweet as damask roses.

No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck So many blows upon this face of mine And made no deeper wounds?

Lord, Lord, how this world is given to lying!

Slander, whose whisper over the world's diameter, as level as the cannon to its blank, transports its poisoned shot.